


Thirty-Seven

by dance_across



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Batman!, Gen, I mean come on this question must be driving everyone insane, M/M, Nightmares, obligatory Cecil/Carlos kissing with some feelings in, the goddamn freaking auction, violence with exclamation points
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:49:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across/pseuds/dance_across
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The nightmares began when the auction ended. But they were bearable nightmares then, hardly worse than the usual terrors that plague the citizens of Night Vale as they sleep. They merely took a different form. A more specific form.</p><p>Now, though, they are getting worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty-Seven

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up to and including episode 49, "Old Oak Doors Part B." Thanks to M.S. for the quick beta!

Cecil is alone in his studio. And then he is not. Because Kevin is there with him.

Being the consummate professional that he is, Cecil does not let the soul-crunching terror he feels infiltrate his voice. Instead, he wraps up the story he was telling – an update on the situation with the bananas at the grocery store, which have been jumping off the shelves and following customers out to their cars, thereby robbing the store of the dollar it charges per banana, which Cecil firmly believes is too high a price anyway – and switches on a prerecorded announcement.

He swivels his desk chair toward Kevin, who has been waiting patiently just in the corner of Cecil’s line of vision. Very patiently.

“Hello,” says Cecil, his voice pitched low, as though he’s still speaking into a microphone. He feels more confident when he sounds like this.

“Hi!” replies Kevin brightly, and holds up a knife.

Cecil tries to calculate the odds of beating Kevin to the door – not great – and Kevin begins moving toward him.

“I saw you,” says Cecil. “I saw you go through the oak door. You’re gone. You’re—”

“—a loyal StrexCorp employee!” finishes Kevin, moving closer and moving closer and why can’t Cecil move at _all_? Kevin smiles wide. Wider than his mouth should allow. He continues, “Which is more than I can say for you, Cecil Palmer. Employee? Yes! Loyal? No!”

Kevin is bending over now, and the point of the knife is inches away from Cecil’s left eye. Kevin is going to put his eyes out. Cecil is sure of it. He’s going to put Cecil’s eyes out, and he’s going to replace them with bottomless black pits, like Kevin’s own.

Oddly, his first thought on realizing this isn’t _Wow, that sure will hurt a lot._

It’s _But how will I see Carlos?_

Kevin doesn’t strike, though. He just reaches into the pocket of his gore-streaked jeans, and pulls out a faintly bloodstained piece of paper.

The paper is laminated.

With the eye whose vision is not being blocked by a knife, Cecil reads it:

**Sheriff’s Secret Police**  
 **Annual Auction of Contraband and Seized Property**  
 **OWNER: LOT 37**

Cecil’s heart seizes. Whether this happens literally or metaphorically, he doesn’t quite know. His heart is beating too fast, his vision becoming too blurry, for him to tell the difference. And he still can’t move. Why can’t he move? It makes no sense.

“You bought me,” he says, because his voice is the only recourse left to him. “Why did you buy me?”

“You are not a loyal Strex employee!” says Kevin, still grinning, still holding the knife inches away from Cecil’s eye. It is a small kitchen knife, Cecil notes. Very small. Very sharp.

“I can be loyal,” says Cecil, and immediately hates himself. “I can try harder.”

“Yes, you’re right,” says Kevin. “And that’s why I’m here to help! You say the wrong things. We would like to change that. We would like you to say the _right_ things.”

And the knife moves lower. Cecil’s mouth opens, even though he never instructed it to. He tries to close it, and can’t. He tries to form words – to say something that will stop Kevin, or at least buy more time – but it comes out as nothing more than a whine.

Cecil feels the moment when the knife touches his tongue, and feels, too, the moment it begins to slice. He closes his eyes. He thinks of Carlos. Of kissing. Of soft hair and gentle hands and warmth. Of kissing. Of kissing.

Cecil’s tongue is gone. Cecil’s mouth is full of blood. Cecil is screaming, crying, owned, punished.

Cecil wakes up.

-

The nightmares began when the auction ended. But they were bearable nightmares then, hardly worse than the usual terrors that plague the citizens of Night Vale as they sleep. They merely took a different form. A more _specific_ form.

Now, though… now that Carlos is gone, all of him except the too-infrequent sound of his voice at the other end of the phone line…

Now, the nightmares are getting worse.

“Carlos,” says Cecil, just to make sure he still can. There’s his tongue, moving against his teeth. There it is, still attached to the rest of him.

Cecil breathes out, long and slow.

The bed is so very empty.

-

Cecil asks the owner of Lot 37 why it took him so long to reveal his identity.

“Huh?” says Marcus, tearing his eyes away from his phone with apparent difficulty. “Oh, right, that. I dunno. I had stuff to do, I guess. Places to go. People to impress. Money to roll in. And I mean that literally, Palmer. If I don’t roll in my money at least once a week, and make sure to touch every coin and every bill at least once, it gets very upset with me.” He chuckles to himself, fondly. “Very upset indeed.”

Marcus pauses just outside the door to his mansion. He pauses, and pauses, and pauses. And looks pointedly at Cecil. Cecil, at first, doesn’t know why. But then, “Oh!” says Marcus. “Almost forgot.”

He fishes around in his jacket pocket, and then in his other jacket pocket, and then in his inside jacket pocket, from whence he pulls a small green dot. He presses it to Cecil’s forehead. It sticks.

Reaching for it, Cecil begins, “What does—”

“For heaven’s sake, man, don’t _touch_ it,” says Marcus, all jovial almost-laughter. “You’ll disrupt the signal.”

“The signal.”

“The very same.”

That’s when, for the first time, Cecil notices a matching green dot on Marcus’s temple, half hidden by his artificially sandy-blond hair. He notices the matching dot, and he knows immediately what it’s for.

 _Open the door_ floats into Cecil’s head. Cecil, too bewildered to protest, does so.

“Thank you,” says Marcus, and walks through.

Cecil follows and closes the door behind them.

 _Refreshment_ occurs to Cecil; he asks Marcus if he can pour him a glass of soda, or of juice, or of something stronger.

“No need for that,” says Marcus, waggling his eyebrows like they’re playing a game. “But thanks ever so much for asking! You’re so thoughtful.”

Thoughtful. Full of thoughts. Full, in this case, of someone _else’s_ thoughts.

 _Serve_ spreads through Cecil’s mind, and he finds himself asking, “What can I do for you, Marcus?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” replies Marcus. “Please, have a seat.”

He indicates the couch. Cecil sits. Marcus remains standing, looming over Cecil like a portly pharaoh.

“You have such a powerful voice,” says Marcus. “It’s full and commanding and people listen to it. But you don’t use it to its full potential. You know that, right?”

 _What do you mean_ comes to Cecil, via the green dot. He asks, “What do you mean?”

“Excellent question!” says Marcus. “I mean you spend so much time describing the small people. The inconsequential people. The little and poor people. I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve mentioned, on your show, this town’s more influential citizens. It’s a shame. And I think it ought to change. Don’t you?”

 _Agree_ , says the green dot.

Cecil does not agree.

But his vocal cords and his tongue and his lips all conspire to form the words, “I do agree.”

“Good, good, good, Palmer, good!” says Marcus, leaning over to clap Cecil on the back. “Then start narrating!”

Cecil blinks. Marcus walks toward the kitchen. Cecil blinks and blinks and _Follow,_ says the green dot, so Cecil gets to his feet and follows. And as the green dot pulses its next instruction into Cecil’s brain, his mouth opens and the words start pouring out:

“Marcus Vanston, Night Vale’s richest and therefore most important and influential citizen, is walking toward his kitchen. He is putting one foot in front of the other, striding gracefully and majestically toward this shining room of pots and knives and garlic. He wants a glass of something! What is it, listeners? What is it? Ahh. I see. It’s water. How humble!”

Cecil does not see anyone else in the house. Marcus does not appear to have a kitchen staff, or servants of any kind, or even family. Cecil has no one to narrate to. But he narrates nonetheless, because he has been purchased and it is his duty.

“Marcus brings his glass of water back into – where is he going now? What corner of this elegant and luxurious place might he want to visit next? Could it be… the living room? It is, listeners, it is! Marcus sits down in his chair, leans his head back, and closes his eyes.”

Cecil’s throat is already beginning to go dry. Normally he keeps a cup of tea near his microphone for just this sort of occurrence, but there is no cup of tea nearby, and he finds that he can’t ask for one. He can only watch Marcus and keep speaking.

“Content with his wonderful life, Marcus takes a small sip of water, sets it down unfinished on the table beside his chair, and folds his hands over his stomach. He begins to drift off to sleep. What will he dream of? Let’s see, listeners. Let us peer into Marcus Vanston’s dreams.”

Cecil wakes up.

-

Okay, so that one wasn’t as bad as it could have been. It didn’t involve pain or violence, and Cecil didn’t wake up in a cold sweat. But he can’t help thinking, as he parts his curtains and surveys the cold, quiet night, that there’s something even more chilling about the eternity of vocal servitude that this dream promised.

Cecil has too many of his own plans for his voice.

The lights outside are brighter than usual, almost merry as they quietly dance in the sky. They dart between the clouds as if playing hide-and-seek, which is unusual behavior indeed. Cecil wonders what Carlos would make of it.

Then, _Why wonder_? he thinks. He fishes in his nightstand for his phone. He calls Carlos.

Carlos does not pick up. Nor does his voicemail. Instead, there are three melodic beeps, followed by a cool female voice saying, “We are sorry. This number is not in service, and as we have no proof that it has ever been in service, we cannot guarantee that it will ever be in service again. Please try again later, just in case we are wrong. We are not usually wrong.”

This happens sometimes. Carlos’s phone will wink out of existence for an hour or two, then show up again as if nothing has happened, except that it will contain a series of texts from Cecil, which Cecil has only _thought about_ sending but never _actually_ sent. Carlos will reply to the texts all at once, and then Cecil will call, and Carlos will pick up, and everything will be slightly more okay than it was before.

Cecil looks at the lights again, then at his phone, and types out a text:

_An orange light is running from a green light, just outside the window of our home. There is a blue light, too, but it seems only to be cheering from the sidelines. Is there meaning in this? Scientific, metaphoric, or otherwise?_

He presses Send.

Then he thinks about composing another text, which will simply say, _I love you. Please come home._ He doesn’t send that one.

But he knows Carlos will receive it anyway.

-

The sidewalk is clogged with people, and Cecil is surrounded. They are all hidden in shadow, all anonymous – but they are all focused entirely on him. He can feel it.

Then, one by one, they begin to step forward. To reveal themselves.

One shadow takes the unmistakable shape of Hiram McDaniels. Four of his heads leer silently down at Cecil; one of them, the gold one, speaks:

“I’ve cleared a spot for you in my vegetable drawer,” says Gold. “You’ll have a radish for a pillow and a spinach leaf for a blanket. You can live there until you’re ripe enough to eat.”

The green head stops leering, just long enough to ask, “How long do humans take to ripen?”

Gold doesn’t seem to have an answer for this. The shadow-crowd shrugs, exactly in unison.

“This is basic information,” growls Green. “Where’s John Peters – you know, the farmer? Surely he has experience in such matters.”

Another shadow slips away to reveal John, who says, “I grow vegetables and shellfish. Not people. Ask Twitter! Twitter will know.”

“I’m not edible,” says Cecil, but the words come out soundless.

Hiram’s gold head leans close and sniffs Cecil’s neck. The violet head dips low and licks one of his fingers. Cecil shivers and backs away – only to bump into another body. A human body.

A familiar body.

“Carlos!” he says, whirling around to see. Sure enough, there he is, lab coat stiffly buttoned, hair perfectly coiffed… and a strangely distant look on his face. He isn’t smiling.

Cecil tries again: “…Carlos?”

Carlos tilts his head a little to the side, then reaches out and touches Cecil’s forehead. Scrapes his fingernail over the skin there, and says, “Lot 37 appears almost entirely human. How fascinating.”

A clipboard appears, out of nowhere, and hovers exactly in front of Carlos’s heart. A pen begins to scribble as Carlos dictates: “We study the skin first. Then we study the heart. Poll research team re: whether Subject Known As Lot 37 should be kept alive whilst we study.”

“Science,” intones the crowd, knowingly, nodding, still in unison.

“Alive?” says Cecil. “But you… you’ve said you love me just as I am. What I am, Carlos, does not presently include ‘dead.’”

Carlos pauses, just for a moment, then nods to himself. “Note: Pull file on Lot 37’s vocal cords. They are unusually powerful. It is scientifically important to discover why.”

A long tongue licks at Cecil’s throat, and he looks around, expecting to see Hiram again. But no – this time it’s Nazr al-Mujaheed, looking vaguely off into the distance while his tongue, longer than any snake Cecil has ever seen, darts this way and that, as if deciding which part of Cecil’s skin will be the best place to bite.

Hiram. Carlos. Nazr. Cecil is starting to feel dizzy.

“Who owns me?” he whispers. “Who won Lot 37?”

“Meet me in the dog park,” says a voice which, after a moment, Cecil recognizes as Dana’s. She is standing there, hands in the pockets of her skirt, eyes looking skyward. “Meet me there, and I’ll tell you. Secretly.”

“The dog park is forbidden,” says Cecil.

“The mayor decides what is and isn’t forbidden,” replies Dana, smiling sadly. “As of this moment, the dog park is forbidden to everyone except you, Cecil. And me.”

Cecil knows that she’s lying. He wants to tell her so, but his vocal cords can’t remember how to translate the word “lying” from thought into speech.

“The dog park!” says Carlos, and his pen begins to scribble again. How is he even getting away with such flagrant pen use? Carlos doesn’t usually breaks laws as important as this one. “Yes, yes, the scientific effect of the dog park’s presence on major vital organs….”

That’s when a new voice breaks in, whispering directly into Cecil’s ear: “Your face is so beautiful. I’ve asked so many times, in so many words and gestures and thoughtful redecorations of your home, for you to give it to me. You have never listened. But now that I own you – now, you will listen. You will give me what I want.”

Cecil turns to look, but there isn’t anyone there. Just a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, denser somehow than the shadow-crowd in which it hides. Cecil did not know that the Faceless Old Woman was able to go outside.

Cecil, until this moment, apparently did not know a lot of things.

“Meet me in the dog park,” says someone else. Old Woman Josie. “Meet me there, and I’ll tell you what the angels want from you.”

“You are mine,” intones the voice of… is that Batman? Cecil peers. Yes. It is Batman. It looks like the Christian Bale version. “You are mine and you will give me back-rubs whenever I require them.”

“But you aren't real,” says Cecil. “You’re fiction. You don’t exist.”

“Do _you_?” asks Batman.

Cecil finds that he isn't sure.

“That wasn't pride you saw,” comes a new voice. No – a very old one. “I did not bid on you. You are not mine.”

Then one of the shadows takes the shape of Cecil’s mother, just long enough to turn its back on him and walk away.

“I’m not anyone’s,” Cecil calls to the retreating shadow. “I am mine!”

“Meet me in the dog park,” says Dana.

“Meet me in the dog park,” says Carlos.

“Do you think this knife will work better than the first one?” asks Kevin, somewhere in the crowd.

Bodies are pressing now. Pressing against him like walls closing in. Cecil can barely breathe. “You can’t all own me,” he says, voice thin and high and not at all like it sounds when he’s at work. “Not all of you. Who won? Who won Lot 37?”

“We did,” say the shadows. All of them, all at once.

“The town did,” clarifies Mayor Dana. “You belong to all of us, meaning each of us individually and all of us together as one. You belong to the buildings and the hooded figures and the PTA, and to the sand beneath us, and to the history beneath the sand.”

“Meet me in the dog park,” adds Steve Carlsberg.

“Meet me in the dog park,” says Tamika Flynn.

“Fifty-one,” says Fey, a radio signal beaming directly into Cecil’s left ear. “Three. Two thousand, three hundred, and ninety-five. Thirty-seven.”

“Meet me in the dog park,” says Hiram’s violet head.

“You are mine,” says the gold head.

“You aren’t real,” says Batman.

“Meet me in the dog park,” says Cecil’s mother.

“I AM REAL,” Cecil shouts. This time his voice comes out even louder, even clearer, than he meant it to. “I AM REAL AND I BELONG TO MYSELF AND I WILL NOT GO TO THE DOG PARK.”

Cecil wakes up.

-

Cecil wakes up, his skin slick with sweat and his bed empty.

No. Not empty.

Carlos is beside him. Watching him with soft, worried eyes.

“Bad dream?” he asks, reaching over to touch the point of Cecil’s chin.

At first, Cecil says nothing. He can’t. His jaw has gone slack, and his voice is shocked into silence. But then, moments later: “You’re… you’re back. When did that happen? _How_ did that happen?”

“I thought I would surprise you,” is Carlos’s only reply, before he leans over and kisses Cecil, so very gently.

There’s nothing for it but to kiss Carlos right back, so that’s what Cecil does. His arms around Carlos’s neck, his fingers pressing into Carlos’s back, his nose inhaling Carlos’s scent. He could cry from sheer joy. He doesn’t, because he’s too preoccupied with kissing, but oh, he definitely could.

“You’re home,” says Cecil, breathless, when their lips break apart. Carlos’s hand is still on his neck, and their foreheads touch, and Cecil keeps saying it: “You’re home, you’re home, you’re home.”

“Are you okay?” asks Carlos.

Cecil remembers, then, what his first question was. About the dream. He takes a deep breath and says, “I am now.”

“But?” prompts Carlos.

Cecil swallows. Looks down. Watches as Carlos weaves their fingers together.

“The auction,” explains Cecil. “You remember? I still don’t know who won Lot 37. Which is to say, Cecil Palmer, no description.”

Carlos pulls away, his lovely face turning surprised, then slightly perplexed, then… well, then downright sheepish.

“Oh,” he says. “Ohhhh. I never told you.”

“Told me?” says Cecil, willing his heart to slow down after all that kissing.

Carlos clutches at the back of his neck. His cheeks are starting to flush. “It, um. It was me, Cecil. I won Lot 37 in the auction.”

“You?” Cecil blinks, stunned. Then relieved. Then _horrified_. “But how… no, but why? Why would you…? I’m yours already! You know that! I was always yours, and now you’ve made it something… entirely different. Something with paperwork. Something official.”

“No, no, no!” says Carlos. “It isn’t like that at all. It’s only that I didn’t want anyone else to own you.”

“That,” says Cecil, with narrowed eyes, “is not better.”

“It is, though,” Carlos insists. “It is, because now that I own you, I can give you back to yourself. I read all the fine print, you see. Resale of items won at auction is illegal, but there isn’t anything about gifts. And you’re… now that I… that is, um…” Carlos’s dark cheeks are blazing now; Cecil can almost feel the heat of them. He ducks his head and finishes: “You are my gift to you.”

“Carlos,” says Cecil, more breath than sound. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I have my reasons,” says Carlos, his voice going low as he leans in again. “Scientific ones.”

And then they’re kissing again, and Cecil’s heart is so full he thinks it might burst, metaphorically and possibly also literally, and Carlos’s hand is clutching at Cecil’s hair,

and Cecil’s skin is all tingly,

and Carlos is pushing him back onto the pillow,

and murmuring things, filthy things, beautiful things, into Cecil’s ear,

and

Cecil wakes up.


End file.
